


Something to Smile About

by sassyjumper



Category: House M.D.
Genre: Christmas Party, Drunkenness, Gen, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-04
Updated: 2013-06-04
Packaged: 2017-12-14 00:39:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,794
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/830694
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sassyjumper/pseuds/sassyjumper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wilson gets drunk at the PPTH holiday party.  Set during Season 2, when House and Wilson were living together, in the glory days of unresolved sexual tension.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Something to Smile About

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from this quote: "Everything sucks. Might as well find something to smile about." - Greg House

 

 

House wasn’t surprised, exactly. Wilson had always liked a drink or ten around the holidays.

He’d witnessed the spectacle in many venues, including the Mrs. Wilson-hosted parties he’d been forced to attend over the years. At one of them, House had even learned—much to his delight—of Wilson’s post-drinking “performance issues” (from a less-than-sober Bonnie).

But at hospital functions like this, Wilson normally kept it together. He’d once explained that he liked to maintain his dignity around colleagues who weren’t House.

House had to admit it was true. Even Wilson’s workplace flirting always had a professional air—a furtive glance over insurance documents; a sheepish smile as he told a nurse that really, his handwriting had always been atrocious, even in first grade.

And then the nurse would smile like she was picturing little Jimmy trying to write his letters, and how _adorable_ it must have been. And then House would momentarily want to choke her.

He shook his head and refocused on the present challenge: Wilson and the blonde he was chatting up at the bar.

House watched them from across the room at the campus “Ivy Club” that Cuddy had secured for the hospital’s annual holiday shenanigans. Even from that distance, he could spot the telltale signs of a drunk Wilson—periodic giggling, leaning in just a hair too close to his companion, swaying on his feet ever so slightly. (It usually took a real binge to get Wilson staggering like a mad cow—though some carefully chosen shots could do the job in a pinch.)

Yep, Wilson was drunk. House knew there were two broad reasons he overindulged around the holidays: he was feeling the spirit of the season or some crap like that; or he was feeling acutely single and depressed.

Since this was Wilson’s first post-Julie holiday, the latter was likely in effect, and he was trying to self-medicate with gin and the adoration of a cute stranger. In House’s medical opinion, that was not the correct regimen. So he decided to provide a consult.

“Pardon the interruption,” he said as he sidled up to Wilson and his blonde. “Dr. Wilson, may I have a word with you?”

Wilson turned to him with an unfocused gaze; House noticed a pink tinge dusting the tip of his nose and his cheekbones. Bad sign. Or good sign, depending on one’s views on a drunk Wilson.

“Uh, Dr. House, can this wait?”

“Afraid not. We need to discuss your condition.”

Wilson gave him the “I’m warning you” look. Really, House thought it was cute he still tried that.

_Wait. Cute?_

Wilson’s new friend looked at him with concern. “James? It’s OK. I’ll—”

“No, no.” Wilson held up a hand and smiled. “Dr. House and I will talk later.”

“I'm sorry, Dr. Wilson, but I got a page,” House said gravely. “Your test results are in.” He turned to the blonde and held out a hand. “Hi. Greg House. I specialize in dread, highly contagious diseases.”

The woman looked at House’s hand. “Oh. Um…James, I think I should let you two talk.” She started to back away. “We can grab a coffee or something at the hospital, OK?”

Wilson nodded, pressing his lips into a tight line. “Yeah, sure.”

Once blondie was out of the way, House rolled his eyes dramatically. “Not too bright, that one. Looks like I saved you from the dimmest Mrs. Wilson yet.”

“I wasn’t gonna marry her,” Wilson whisper-growled, putting his drink on the bar.

“What were you gonna do? Invite her back to _my couch_ for a romp?” Actually, House fleetingly registered, that image wasn't as disturbing as it should be.

“I assume she has a home somewhere,” Wilson countered.

“With mommy and daddy, from the looks of her.”

“Oh please.” Wilson swayed a bit, then aimed an index finger at him. “Y’know, you tell me to stop moping, but the first time you see me talking to a woman, you can’t stand it.”

“Yeah, it drives me mad with jealousy,” House sneered, ignoring the truth in his words. “Anyway, Dr. Dignity, since when do you pick up one-night-stands at hospital soirees? I just kept you from embarrassing yourself.”

“ _Riiight._ ” Wilson started to walk away unsteadily. “You hate to see me embarrassed.”

“When I’m not the cause,” House replied, following close behind. At least drunk Wilson was easy to keep pace with.

In fact, House almost ran into him when he stopped short and whirled around. “Oh yes, I forgot,” Wilson snarked, eyebrows springing to life. “As long as you're in control, that's all that matters. If you want me around, it’s OK to erase my phone messages. If you don’t want me around, it’s OK to keep me out on the stoop—”

“God, are you still going on about that?” House groaned. “No one _made_ you sit out there.”

Wilson began to teeter off again, and House was promptly on his heels, leaning in close to his ear. “Why didn’t you go hang out with all those great people I supposedly keep you from? That would’ve been the perfect time, don’t you think?”

House could feel that they were drawing stares now. But he didn’t mind being the evening’s entertainment.

Wilson forged ahead into the lobby, tripping a little as he approached the coat check. He glanced back, as if to ID the piece of carpet that had attacked him.

“You’re drunk,” House said needlessly. “Where do you think you’re going?”

“Home.” Wilson fumbled for his ticket before slapping it on the counter and turning to House. “By that, of course, I mean your couch. I don’t have a home. You made sure of that.”

The coat-check guy looked back and forth between them before scurrying off.

“What are they serving at that bar?” House asked in faux-confusion. “Drinking usually makes you less bitchy.”

Wilson turned away. “Sorry I’m failing to amuse you.”

House furrowed his brow. He did not approve of this moody, self-pitying version of drunk Wilson. It was enough to make him miss the dork who thought wrapping House’s cane in red-and-white-striped paper was the height of Christmas hilarity.

“You can’t drive, you moron,” House said as Wilson collected his coat.

“Cuddy hired a cab service.” Wilson awkwardly pushed past him, almost tripping again.

 _Of course she did._ She’d also provided a “mocktail” bar for the suckers who were on call. The woman was obsessed with avoiding litigation. House did not have that problem.

“Fine,” he called after Wilson. “Go sulk on my couch. Your ass imprint awaits.”

Wilson was too busy battling with his own coat and walking out the door to respond.

For a few moments House just stood there, tapping his cane on the floor. He knew he should go back to the party. He should grab a drink, find Cuddy and see how much cleavage she was baring in honor of Jesus and the Maccabees. But for some reason, he found himself turning to the coat-check guy.

“I don’t know what I did with my ticket. But mine is the awesome leather jacket that no one else here could possibly get away with wearing.”

“I remember it,” the guy said with a little smile, and what House could have sworn was a wink.

When he returned, he was still sporting that irritating smile. “You better get after him,” coat-check guy advised. “He seemed _pissed._ ”

House narrowed his eyes. “Uh, yeah. I noticed.”

The guy tilted his head, his face softening into a sympathetic, “Oh girl, I know” kind of look. House frowned before turning and limping toward the door. The last thing he heard as the cold night air hit him was a faint yet hopeful, “Good luck!”

 

*******

 

“What the hell did you do?” House demanded, looking down at the sad sight before him.

He’d taken a meandering route home, to give Wilson time to simmer down, or sober up, or pass out. He hadn’t banked on the idiot maiming himself.

Wilson was slumped on the couch in his pajamas, holding a bag of frozen broccoli spears to his left eye and swigging from the bottle of Samuel Smith in his other hand. One of _his_ Samuel Smiths, House groused silently. The bitch.

“Leave me alone,” Wilson replied miserably.

“Yeah, that’ll happen.” House waited a beat, but when no response came he used his cane to swat Wilson’s leg. “What. Did. You. Do?”

Wilson removed the Green Giant to reveal an impressive shiner. “There,” he said petulantly. “That’s what I did.”

“Well, yeah.” House dropped heavily beside him. “I assumed you weren’t trying to eat the broccoli…And why the hell do I have frozen broccoli spears?”

“Broccoli’s good for you,” Wilson insisted, then winced as he placed the bag over his eye again. “Sucks as first aid, though,” he grumbled. “Too spear-y.”

“Again, I must inquire. How did you manage this? Did you run into blondie’s husband in the parking lot?”

Wilson tried to glare with his right eye. “Nooo. She’s not married, House.”

“How do you know? Do you even remember her name?”

“Of course. It’s…Sh-she works in IT, with the, um, EMRs.”

“What’s her N-A-M-E?”

Wilson huffed and returned his attention to his beer.

“Well,” House said with mock cheer, “if you weren’t interested enough to commit her name to memory, you can’t really be that pissed at me.”

Wilson closed his good eye. “I’m not,” he said wearily. “I mean, I am a little…I guess. It’s just…”

House waited, briefly wondering if Wilson had fallen asleep mid-sentence. He’d seen it happen before.

After a moment, though, Wilson sighed. “It was nice to talk to someone who—who seemed interested. I just wanted to have a few drinks, and talk to someone, and…forget.”

House shifted uncomfortably. This conversation was approaching heart-to-heart territory, and he'd heard of that place. It was filled with Oprah-recommended books and knitting circles, and Deepak Chopra was the town doctor.

But then he looked at Wilson and his defeated posture, his pathetic broccoli, and his pouty lips. _Oh Christ._

House steeled himself. “Forget what?”

Wilson shook his head, keeping his eyes closed. “That everything sucks. As a wise…ass once told me.”

House nodded. “Sage words.” He scratched at his stubble and ventured on. “But I thought we put an end to your pity party a while ago.”

Wilson adjusted his broccoli. “Oddly, I think it’ll take more than peeing myself in my sleep to lift the cloud of depression.”

House looked at him. _Idiot,_ he thought, though there was a fondness in it. Wilson didn’t really believe everything sucked; he still thought clouds could be lifted.

House, on the other hand, accepted the fact that clouds just kind of hovered over everything all the time. There were spaces in between, but they never stopped coming.

Still, despite appearances, House didn’t actually want Wilson to be as cynical as he was. And he definitely didn’t want him chronically unhappy. What he objected to was Wilson’s penchant for rushing into the arms of the first pretty IT employee who made him feel _special._

If pressed, though, House wouldn’t be able to articulate what he _did_ want Wilson to do. Maybe just be happy staying on his couch forever?…No. Even that wasn’t really true.

House cleared his throat and waved a hand at Wilson’s eye. “You still haven’t told me how you did that.”

Wilson hesitated then sighed in defeat. “I walked into a door.”

House stared, disbelieving. “That’s something that actually happens?”

Wilson crossed his right arm over his chest and turned the pout dial up. “I was in the bathroom…I guess I thought the door was heavier than it is. I, uh, pulled it too hard and kinda fell forward. And…you know.”

“Moron,” House snickered.

“Yeah, so you’ve mentioned before.”

“Well, I’m standing by my original diagnosis.”

“That’s a first.”

“ _Ooo,_ burn.”

House thought he saw a hint of a smile. But then it was gone. “It’s almost Christmas,” Wilson muttered, “and I’m drunk, and sleeping on your couch, and I gave myself a black eye.”

“You’re Jewish. What does the ‘almost Christmas’ matter?”

Wilson drained his beer and set the bottle down. “Christmas can make anyone feel like shit.”

House couldn’t argue with that. Experience told him it was true. But there was also that space-between-the-clouds thing, even in December.

“I’m sorry you feel like shit,” House said, surprising himself a bit. “But I’m not sorry she left you. You were miserable in that relationship for a long time.”

Wilson angled his head toward him. “I know,” he said softly. “But it’s still…” He pinched the bridge of his nose then flinched. “Ow!”

House rolled his eyes and was in the middle of composing the witticism of the night when Wilson’s head suddenly listed to the side, coming dangerously close to landing on House’s shoulder.

He looked at the brown mop, and the pale hand still clutching broccoli spears. He wanted to shove Wilson away, but at the same time he didn’t.

Wilson sighed again. “I’m lonely,” he mumbled.

House blinked, thrown off by the straightforward admission. “Join the club,” he said without thinking.

Wilson pulled away a bit so he could look at him, and House immediately regretted his slip.

 _Shit._ Once Wilson was sober he’d probably base an entire lecture series on that one little statement. House could see it already: the “See, House, You Do Have Feelings” introductory lecture; the follow-up, “It’s OK to Admit You Need People;” and the keynote, “I Know You’re Afraid to Show You Care.”

Wilson kept looking at him, with that one wide and wondering brown eye and that fistful of broccoli. And he looked so damn stupid and pathetic, House again wanted to shove him. Or possibly do something else.

“But that doesn’t make sense,” Wilson finally said.

House squinted. “What doesn’t?”

“The club of lonely people. Doesn’t make sense.” He sounded sleepy and confused. House smirked; this was the drunk Wilson he liked.

“It’s a really socially awkward club,” House clarified. “We just stand there staring at each other.”

Wilson giggled softly and again let his head dip toward House’s shoulder. House tensed. He and Wilson were routinely in each other’s personal space, but not quite like this. And he wasn’t sure what he was supposed to do.

“Who heads this club?” Wilson asked through a yawn.

“Morrissey,” House replied without hesitation.

As Wilson giggled again, House felt a smile forming. “Robert Smith is the treasurer,” he added.

“Hmmm,” Wilson murmured. “All dues go toward Prozac.”

“Naturally,” House agreed quietly, relaxing a bit. He thought he felt Wilson shift closer still, and he told himself this was OK. Maybe a little weird, but OK.

House looked again at the rumpled head of hair. “We, uh, need to devise a story to explain that eye,” he said, just to break the silence. “Otherwise I’ll catch the blame. Cuddy and the other gals will never buy the ‘walked into a door’ thing.”

“Mm-hmm,” Wilson concurred, and his head was definitely in contact with House’s shoulder now.

“Sooo,” House said, trying to sound casual even as his body went stock-still. “Think of something.”

“’M drunk,” Wilson protested.

House sighed. “God, you’re annoying.” He moved a bit, just to see if Wilson’s surprisingly heavy head would come with him. It did.

 _OK._ “Well,” House said. “Think you could make yourself useful and put a DVD in? I’ve got _Tranny Claus_ socked away in my specialty section. It was gonna be a Christmas morning surprise, but…”

Wilson slowly sat up and put his broccoli down. He blinked owlishly a couple times before saying, “’Kay. Sounds festive.”

He stood up gingerly then staggered like a colt to the TV.

“Grab the extra blanket while you’re there,” House instructed. Wilson complied and came right back to the same spot. Right the hell next to him. Only this time he haphazardly tossed the blanket across both of them. _OK._

House used the remote to start the movie, and a few moments later Wilson giggled again. “Tranny Claus,” he said, like he was just getting it.

“Yes, Wilson,” House said solemnly, “there is a Tranny Claus.”

Wilson snorted and House bit the insides of his cheeks. “Can we shut up now?” he asked. “You miss the first five minutes of this one and you’re lost.”

“’Kay,” Wilson said softly.

“’Kay,” House agreed and allowed himself to settle back a bit more. This was weird but OK.

There were people who decorated trees, or lit menorahs, or stuffed their faces with turkey and eggnog. And then there were people who snuggled with their drunk best friend and watched Christmas porn. For right now at least, House was OK with who he was.

 

 

 

_—End_


End file.
